


Monthly Horror Shorts

by LucaBicono



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Gore, Horror, Monthly Writing, Other, Paranormal, Personal Challenge, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-01-20 21:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucaBicono/pseuds/LucaBicono
Summary: I decided to challenge myself to write at least one short horror story every month (at the time of creation of this work, ten short stories have been written)





	1. Unlocked

Sara yawned, rubbing her eyes and silently cursing her manager for giving her a surprise assignment so late at night. She climbed out of her faded, chipped and peeling burgundy Saturn, straightening her suit. She trotted up the dirt driveway to her front door, fishing around in her purse for her house key. She cussed under her breath as the key evaded her grasp. It was far too dark to continue rooting around in her bag, and she slung it over her shoulder with an irritated sigh.

She walked briskly around the side of her house; living out in the more rural side of town meant far fewer neighbors, and far less likely that she would encounter very many thieves, and so she never locked her back door when she went out, in case this very event should occur. Her shoes clopped against the aged wood as she climbed the stairs of the porch, and she slid the glass door open.

As she passed the threshold, she felt a chill run up her spine. The door led into the mudroom, with the washer and dryer to her right as she walked in. Next to the entrance was the kitchen, a partition separating the kitchen from the living room, across the living room was a hall leading into the den, next to the den was her bedroom. She couldn’t quite figure out why, but the warmly-lit kitchen suddenly seemed to possess an air of danger.

She shook the thought away; what a time to get the alone-at-night willies. Instead, she shrugged off her suit top, and draped it over one of her kitchen table chairs. She sighed, glad to be relieved of the stuffy outfit, relieved of her late night shift. She left her purse on the table, and began to undo the buttons on her shirt. Luckily, she had left her nightshirt on the couch in the living room, and she pulled it on as soon as her blouse was off.

She removed the rest of her work clothes once the hem of her shirt was completely unfurled. She folded them up neatly and left them on the couch next to one of the armrests. She flopped down onto the other end of the couch, shuffling around to get comfortable before reaching for her television remote; there was no way she’d be getting back to sleep for the next few hours.

The television flicked on, and she found herself surfing through channels, finding nothing that could catch her interest. Her eyes slowly began to drift closed as the channels reached their loop, and her grip on the remote slackened.

Suddenly, her eyes shot open and she dropped the remote. She held her breath, listening. She sat upright, looking around the living room. She could have sworn, just as she’d begun to drift off, she’d heard a creaking of floorboards.

The television continued to drone on as she pushed herself to her feet, peering around the partition between the living room and the kitchen. She chuckled inwardly, shaking her head. Still, she approached her back door, for the first time in a long while sliding the bolt shut. It stuck for a moment, but with a great push, she finally locked the door.

She jumped, yelping in shock as a thud echoed through the house. She spun on her heel, eyes wide and studying the darkened abyss of her den down the hall. She shook her head, trying to shake away her uneasiness; it was likely just the house settling.

Still, she sidled against the wall towards her counter where her knife block sat. She reached for where her biggest knife was, only to grasp nothing. She silently cussed as she remembered that it was in the dishwasher. Instead, she grabbed a slightly smaller knife, her knuckles white as she gripped it tightly.

She crept through the kitchen and to the hall, flicking on the light and illuminating part of the den. Her eyes settled on the door to the basement that sat in the middle of the hall, and she quickly checked to make sure it was locked. The floor creaked under a few of her steps, and she proceeded slowly forth. As she finally felt her foot brush against the familiar shag carpet, she found herself thankful that she had yet to replace it with hardwood.

The den remained dark, and she reached around the corner for the lightswitch. As she did, she felt her fingers stick to the switch for a moment, as though there was some sort of residue on the aged plastic.

As the lights flickered to life, she looked down at her hand, eyes wide in horror: her fingers were red with blood. She glanced at the switch, and felt a chill run up her spine as she confirmed that there was indeed blood upon it. It was still wet, though it had long since lost its warmth.

“ _ I must have cut myself on something before I left. _ ” She reasoned, though she knew that she would find no wounds upon her fingers should she check. She tiptoed further into the den, finding nothing else out of place. Just as she was about to turn back around, she noticed that one of the curtains was wrinkled, the bottom crumpled up on the window sill, as though someone had been looking through it recently.

She had finally had enough; she was calling the police. She had to focus to keep herself from stamping her feet as she hurried to the living room, her eyes locked on her wall-mounted landline phone. She picked it up and dialed 9-1-1, turning around to watch the hallway.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

Sara immediately felt a calm in the storm, glad to hear another person’s voice. “Hi, my name is Sara, I live at 17 Theresa Way. I think someone may have broken into my house while I was out.”

There was a moment, before the operator responded. “Alright Sara, I’ll have a squad car out to you right away. You’re pretty far out there but last I heard we have a couple of officers about ten minutes from your location.”

“Thank you.” She sighed in relief. She leaned against the wall, watching the hallway.

“Do you have any idea if the intruder is still in the house?” The operator asked.

“I’m not sure, but I have been hearing things since I got in.” She replied, her fingers tight on the phone.

“Are you armed?”

“Yes, I have a kitchen knife.”

“That’s smart.” There was a moment of silence, before the operator spoke again. “Are you in a secure location? A room with a locked door, a hiding spot?”

“No, I’m in my living room. I heard a noise coming from my den but there was no one in there that I could see.”

“Okay, is there anywhere secure you could move to? A bedroom, a bathroom, anywhere that might make it difficult for an intruder to reach you?”

“My bedroom is down the hall next to the den, and my bathroom is next to my living room.”

“Alright. If your bedroom is next to the den and you think the intruder might be there, I advise you try the bathroom. Leave the phone off of the hook, please? Let me know if you can get in there.”

“Yeah.” She nodded, placing the phone on the kitchen counter. She reached for her clothes on the couch, pulling on her pants just so she would at least be decent should she need to leave the house in a hurry.

She walked briskly through the living room to the bathroom door. She turned the knob and pushed, expecting it to yield to her, but the door stuck fast. She jiggled the knob, her skin prickling with goosebumps.

The door was locked from the inside, and the knob was covered in blood.

She practically jogged back to the phone, picking it up and spinning around to watch the now-dark den; had she turned off the lights on her way back?

“My bathroom door is locked from the inside and I think there’s someone else in the den.”

She could hear the operator cuss on the other end of the line. “Alright, remain calm, Sara, help is on the way.” The operator said something else, but it seemed as though they were talking to someone else. “It should only be a few more minutes.”

“ _ But I might not have a few more minutes… _ ” Sara’s core was filled with dread as the morbid thought crept into her head. “Please, can you stay on the line with me?” She could hear her voice wavering, her heart pounding, the adrenaline pumping throughout her body.

“Of cour--”

The operator was cut off, and the house was plunged into darkness. Sara stared at the phone in horror, catching the slightest bit of movement in the pitch-black hall.

She leapt for the back door, her fingers closing around the bolt and tugging.

It was stuck.

She pulled as hard as she could, but the bolt wouldn’t move. She could hear heavy footfalls behind her in the kitchen, and she screamed in defiance as a figure lunged for her. She ducked low, tackling her attacker’s legs and sending them sprawling over her back. She pushed herself into a run, tripping over the couch as she made for the hall.

She scrambled to her feet, gritting her teeth as she sprinted into the den. She dove towards her bedroom door, the knob stuck fast. With a cry of rage and despair, she instead made for the front door, turning the lock on the knob and sliding open the bolt.

Just as she was about to yank open the door, she felt a pair of hands grab her shoulders from behind.

“NO!” She shouted, swinging her arm back and hearing the blade tear through cloth and flesh. Her attacker let out a grunt of pain, but she refused to yield. Instead, she swiped again, and again, her knife slicing the figure’s torso several times.

With a final shout of fury, she flipped the knife around in her hand and plunged it blade-first into the figure’s left eye. Her attacker howled in pain, hands grasping uselessly at hers, trying to remove the blade from their eye socket.

Sara yanked the knife out, and spun on her heel, pulling open the door and sprinting out down her driveway. She glanced back at the house, illuminated only by the faint, overcast moonlight, but didn’t stop running.

She could see blue and red flashing lights up ahead, and she raised her arms above her head.

“Stop! STOP! HELP ME!” She cried, and the cruiser slowed to a stop in front of her. The officers climbed out of the car, hands on their holsters.

“Police! Freeze!” The passenger barked, and Sara nodded, immediately dropping her knife and keeping her arms raised.

The officers approached her, asking her who she was, what she had been doing, if she was the one that had made the call. As soon as they were certain she was telling the truth, they escorted her into the car, cruising down the road towards her house.

Upon entering, the police had found blood in the den in front of the front door, leading down the hall, into the living room and kitchen, and out the back door. One officer went out to try and track her attempted killer, while the other remained to try and see if the attacker had tried to throw them off their trail and waited inside.

She went room by room, her pistol drawn and held out in front of her in case she found a threat. She exited through the front door, walking around the side and finding an open window leading into the bedroom. Walking further back, she found another window, and she stood on her toes to try and peer in.

The window let into the bathroom, and she shone her flashlight inside, her eyes growing wide in shock as the light had settled on a corpse propped up against the door, his throat and gut both slit.

Although they couldn’t be certain, the report stated that whoever had broken into her house had been seen, and followed inside. Once the bystander had found the attacker, they had fought, resulting in the bystander sustaining damage to the throat and stomach. He had managed to lock himself in the bathroom, before bleeding out.

Sara wouldn’t know for a week or so who it was that had attacked her, as they would need to run blood tests to differentiate between the attacker and the bystander. However, she had had a fairly good idea, as she had received a call from one of her co-workers.

Her manager had been mugged the night she was attacked, and had been stabbed in the side, the chest, and the left eye.


	2. The Dark Road

Laura groaned softly as she was stirred awake by the droning car horn. Her head was pounding, and she raised her hands up to pry her forehead away from her steering wheel, at last ceasing the infernal honking. She placed a hand to her forehead, feeling a wet and sticky substance along with an indentation from the emblem on her steering wheel. She held her hand in front of her face; she was definitely bleeding.

She cussed under her breath as she lay back in her seat. “ _ That’ll teach me for buying a used car from a shady dealer. _ ” She shifted her weight, trying to push open her door, succeeding after a minute or so of shoving. As she stumbled out into the cool autumn night air, she reached into her purse for her flashlight.

Her car was totalled, the whole front up to the windshield was crumpled against a tree, the driver-side door bent, the top pushed in by a large fallen branch. She held herself up against the side of the car, groaning again and trying to remember what had happened.

She had been driving home from work, coasting down a dirt road just off of the highway; the path had been forged years and years ago, long before her childhood, which had been spent jogging and exploring the very same path. Her house wasn’t that far from here, but the lack of streetlights gave her little indication of which way was which.

With a resigned sigh, she pushed away from her car, limping along the road, hoping to come across some sort of landmark that could clue her in to where she was going. Her prayers were quickly answered; she would recognize the misshapen boulder on the side of the road anywhere. The misshapen boulder that she and her friend George had climbed on when they were young, pushing and shoving one another, trying to fight for the right which back then they had seen as a privilege to sit atop it.

She continued on, humming in thought. What had ever happened to George? She was just gone one day, and Laura had been absolutely devastated to lose her best friend. Where had she gone?

Laura shook her head, her hair sticking to her bleeding forehead. Back to the task at hand, returning home. She racked her brains, trying to remember the crash and the moments just prior.

She had been driving, yes, but then she had heard someone calling to her from this path. She turned down the road and began to follow the voice, yet even her high-beams couldn't light much in the seemingly impregnable darkness.

A red cloth of some sort fluttered in the trees overhead, and more memories came flooding back; a picnic with her parents on the riverbank on the edge of the woods on a particularly windy day. Their picnic blanket had been carried away, she could remember it clearly, and it had landed in the trees.

She could have sworn that her father had retrieved it somehow, though perhaps he simply bought a new one.

Her shoes scraped along in the dirt, her limping just as bad as it had been minutes before. She had followed that voice down the road, moving slowly along the curved path.

The snow was heavy last winter, and she could remember being chilled to the bone as she walked out onto the icy surface of the lake, trying to take a shortcut home. The lake -- it wasn't a river at all, she had been mistaken -- had been a popular spot for ice-skating, though last winter it must not have frozen enough; Laura had fallen in just before she reached the opposite shore. She was forced to stay home with pneumonia for weeks.

The voice had called her towards the treeline, and she had poked her head out of her window to try and see who had been there. All she could see were the trees on the forefront, the rest obscured by the dark night.

A chill ran down her spine; she could hear the voice now, too. A small voice yet a voice nonetheless. She crept closer to the trees as she continued along the road, her head throbbing.

She had heard stories of a serial killer that stalked the woods. He would prey on unsuspecting travellers, luring them to his lair with sounds of babies wailing and cries for help. Her parents had warned her and George to never wander too far into the woods, lest a wicked witch snatch them away to feast upon them. In hindsight, perhaps they had figured children would be more afraid of a witch than the much more real threat of a murderer.

The voice persisted, ringing in her ears, calling to her -- actually  _ calling to her _ . She hobbled on, her flashlight barely illuminating the path.

She had just bought her car last week, at the behest of her parents. All she’d needed was an old junker that could take her to and from school, as her father’s job often had him working odd hours, and her mother could no longer drive her so far without being late for work.

She blinked, blood having begun to roll down her brow and into her eyes. She wiped it away, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. She could remember clearly now the moment of the crash.

She had turned down one of the many twists on the path, squinting through her windshield as she had spotted a figure standing just beyond the treeline. She had driven closer, thinking it to be a person in need of assistance, but they had bolted straight for her, a pale, ghastly shape that pounded against the car, their fists slamming into her car over and over. She had slammed her foot on the gas, panic coursing through her, and then…

The voice was still calling to her, louder now, as though the source was right next to her. She pressed her hand against one of the trees to her side, resting against it as she was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end, as though someone were breathing down her neck.

She didn’t look behind her, scared of what she might see. Continuing down the road was the only option she had. Her shoes dragged along through the dirt, her knees wobbling. She wiped the blood and sweat from her forehead, flicking the rivulets of red from her eyes.

The road seemed darker and longer than it ever had before. Her flashlight flickered, and she cussed under her breath, muttering about batteries. Everything felt as though it were spinning, spinning, spinning, and she stopped in her tracks, bending over the side of the road and vomiting.

Her head was pounding, and she reached up to wipe yet more blood away from her brow. She could feel the skin of her forehead peeling, the wound wide and deep. She gulped back the residual bile in her throat, gritting her teeth and continuing on.

The voice was still calling to her, and she could feel the pale, clammy, cold hands closing around her throat. Tears spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks as the hands gripped her ankles, forcing her to the ground.

She was suffocating in the mud -- when had it been raining? She could see small, child-sized footprints in the soil, filling with rainwater. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes, adjusting her raincoat.

George had gone this way.

“George?” She called, pushing herself to her feet and trying to scrape the mud off of the knees of her jeans. “George, where are you?”

She followed the prints through the trees, her heart sinking as she first saw one white sneaker, then another not too far away. She came upon a strange sort of shack in the woods, and she needed to stand on her toes to see into the window.

A large shape stood in the center of the room, something shiny raised over his head, before he swung it down with a loud  _ thunk! _ . Red, everything was red, and Laura wiped at her eyes again, nursing the wound on her head.

She was standing by the side of the road now, a convenience store across the highway. She shambled towards it, rapping her knuckles against the glass door as it slid open.

The large shape stood in the doorway, his hands gnarled and calloused, gripping the wooden frame.

“Whaddya want?”

“I’m looking for my friend, mister. Her name is George. Is she here?”

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

Laura tilted her head into the shack, her heart hammering in her chest as she saw red on the table in the center of the room, viscera and gore littering the tabletop and the floor and the man’s hands.

Pale, clammy hands closed around her mouth, and she shrieked in terror, kicking and screaming as he lifted her into the air. She could see George staring at her from the floor, her eyes glazed over and staring ahead, and Laura thought for a moment why she would be hiding herself from the shoulders down underneath the floorboards.

Laura swung her fists wildly, and she could hear things clattering to the floor.

“Ma’am, calm down!”

She closed her fingers around the nearest object, screaming and swiping at her attacker with it. Red, red, more red, the walls were covered in spatter as the man’s neck was ripped open. She fell to the decayed wooden floor, her hands slipping and sliding on the shining red tile.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she stumbled back towards the entrance of the shack, screaming for help as she darted into the middle of the highway. Lights appeared in the distance, shaking around; flashlights, she was saved.

She was scooped into an embrace, she heard the pounding of feet, and she could see two of the lights coming directly towards her, sailing smoothly over the ground as though on rails.

Pale, cold, clammy hands closed around her throat and covered her mouth and eyes, and she could feel sharp claws digging into her wound, scraping into her skull as though trying to get at her brain.

Her heart beat out of rhythm and the lights got bigger and she could feel coldness being pumped through her veins and the pricking and stabbing wouldn’t stop and George was crying out for her and she was crying out for George and the man was laughing laughing laughing

Laura groaned as she felt a soft something beneath her. Her head throbbed with pain, and her arms and legs felt like lead. She could hear a soft beeping to her right.

Her eyes slowly opened, and she found herself staring into a pale blue wall. Her father was next to her, and she let out a small laugh.

“How are you feeling, honey?”

_ I’m fine, papa _ , she wanted to say, but she could only seem to mutter an incoherent something or other.

Her mother cradled her in her arms, lifting her head to give Laura’s father a kiss. “Never been better.” She chuckled softly. The two of them looked down at Laura, their warm smiles forcing another laugh out of her.

“Welcome to the world, Laura.”


	3. On The Corner of Grace and 7th

On the corner of Grace and 7th, legend has it, there is a turn hidden in the bushes that frame the corner. It’s a small dirt road, just wide enough for a car to squeeze through. It doesn’t matter what sort of car, the path is flexible and will adjust to your needs.

Should you happen down this road, you will find that it stretches farther than you may think at first sight; it should lead you into the backyard of a regular suburban home within minutes. Instead, it will stretch for miles and miles, the trees becoming thicker and closer together the further you go, until it seems as though they are fusing together, blocking out any and all light around you, aside from the faint glimmer of sun further ahead.

Finally, you will exit the trees, into the backlot of a small convenience store, surrounded on all sides by trees. A red car will be parked right next to the back door, but don’t expect to see anybody driving it; it comes and goes as it pleases. Never enter through the front door, only through the back. Walking into the convenience store, you will be greeted by a rather pleasant smell, like that of freshly-baked bread.

You will be greeted by an elderly woman wearing a red vest with the store’s logo on the back. She will offer you a variety of baked goods, from slices of pie to cookies to cupcakes. I recommend the pumpkin strudel, it is the only thing that I can guarantee is never poisoned. Order a piece of bread, but do not eat it; instead, keep it on your person for now.

Once she hands you the pumpkin strudel, sit down at the furthest booth from the front door. It is never occupied. Eat the pumpkin strudel. It should take you no less than ten minutes; I can’t guarantee your safety if the old woman thinks you aren’t savoring her food.

Once you are finished, and I mean well and truly finished, to the point that there are no crumbs left on your plate, stand up from the booth, and leave through the back door. Your car will be gone, and you won’t be able to see the path you came from. Do not panic, and you will be fine.

Instead, walk around the left side of the building until you reach a dumpster, and from there, turn left. The trees will part, leading you down a new path, one that looks as though the forest has grown around a highway.

You will walk for hours, and, just as you feel you cannot take another step, a man will appear in the middle of the highway. He will standing completely still, with his back turned to you. As you get closer, he will begin singing the words “Shave and a haircut”, over and over, and louder and louder, until you are almost upon him. He will spin around and say, in a quiet voice, “Two bits!”

Hand him 25 cents. If you do not have 25 cents, turn around and walk back the way you came; do not look back, and do not try to get past him without paying the toll. Within a few hours, you should arrive on the corner you started at, and your car will be parked across the street. Do not try to leave if you have 25 cents, for I cannot guarantee he will leave you alone.

If you were able to hand him a quarter, he will take out a pair of scissors, and snip off a single hair from your head. He will tie this hair around one of your fingers, and, as far as I know, it will be random every time. Once he has tied the hair around your finger, he will turn around, and walk into the trees. Do not remove the hair from your finger under any circumstance. It is the only thing protecting you from the creatures lurking beyond the trees from this point onward until the end of your journey.

Continue down the highway until you come across a small cottage, sitting in the middle of the road. Do not try to walk around it. Do not try to turn back. Instead, enter through the front door; it’s open. Now that you’re in my house, I ask that you please not leave just yet. You will find a cellar door in the kitchen. It is locked. If you do not have the key, then I have no use for you. Leave through the back door and walk until nightfall. You will emerge from the trees at the corner where you began, and your car will be parked on the other side of the street.

If you have the key, please, open the cellar door, and climb down the stairs. I’ll be waiting for you, chained to the wall and emaciated, as I haven’t eaten in years. My hair will be falling out. My nails will be long and unkept. I beg of you, unlock my shackles and give me the bread the woman gave you. Stay until I have finished eating.

I will stand, and I beg that you forgive me for shackling you to the wall in my place. I will climb the stairs, and leave through the back door, making sure my hair is securely tied around my finger. I will walk until nightfall, and I will emerge from the trees on the corner where I began, and my car will be waiting for me across the street.


	4. Sandman

The darkness of nightfall is a phenomenon that offers a bewildering sort of paradox to those who fear it. Think back to when you were a child. Oftentimes, children are afraid of the dark, or in many cases, what the darkness represents: the unknowable. There may be something there, lurking just out of your sight. Blink, and you’ll miss it.

And yet, children will also find their safe haven when hiding underneath their covers, ironically limiting their sight even more while offering the safe and secure feeling of being cocooned. In this sense, hiding under the covers is a return to the womb for a child. It is safety. It is security. It is maternal protection and love.

It is not the fear of the darkness, the fear of the unknown and unseeable, that frightens. It is instead what we can see and what we perceive to be in our peripherals compared to the surrounding darkness.

A coat hanging off of a chair may instead look to be an intruder, the Sandman come to pluck out a child’s eyes, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. A lamp may look to be the Boogeyman, his head perked and staring, his limbs at his sides and resting in a stillness that scoffs even at that of death.

The softness of a mattress, the warmth and security of a blanket; a mere simulation of what we feel is the very embodiment of protection and love, to be within the womb and entrusting our fates to those who carry us.

How appropriate then, that young Elaine had wrapped herself tightly in her sheets, trembling under her blanket as the man in her closet slowly slid the door open, creeping across the floor to her bed. For he knew that truth which so many are afraid to admit.

We are at our most vulnerable while in the womb.


	5. Painterly

Sam glanced past the canvas, her reflection staring back at her, poker-faced. Her hand moved as though it had a mind of its own, stroking the brush across the canvas and capturing her glass twin.

At long last, she had found the time to finish her self-portrait, her eyelids heavy and her head throbbing. Sleepless nights followed by long mornings at her day job followed by yet more sleepless nights could finally end.

With one final caress of the canvas, she turned to look at herself, excitement flooding her core at the product of her toil, the result of working into the wee hours of the morning. Her grin faltered and her face fell, and she rubbed her tired eyes, ignoring the paint that smeared itself across her brow.

She looked terrible.

She stared at herself from the canvas, her eyes wide and bloodshot, bags aplenty. Her skin was pale and her cheeks were sallow. Her hair was frizzed about her face, pointing outward in several different directions. She didn’t look like herself.

Sam huffed in frustration, fighting back the pressure that had built up behind her eyes. There was always next time. Yet more sleepless nights. Yet more working into the wee hours of the morning. Yet more unfulfillment and despair.

As she draped a tarp over her canvas and shut the light in her closet which she had begun to call her studio, she felt a hopelessness form in her heart. So much work, all to waste. Dejectedly, she shuffled down the short hallway and into her bedroom. She collapsed on her bed, not bothering to change into her pajamas or even wash her face. She was too tired.

 

_ SLAM _

 

_ SLAM _

 

_ SLAM _

 

Sam’s eyes shot open in alarm. She turned to look at her clock; it was barely past five in the morning.

 

_ SLAM _

 

She felt her brow knit together in fury. Who could be knocking at this hour? Why did they have to choose her home to seek help? Why could she never get even a moment’s rest?

She balled up her hands into fists, standing from her bed and stamping down the short hall into her den.

 

_ SLAM _

 

“Whaddya want?” She muttered as she opened the door, trying to hide the displeasure in her voice. To her surprise, there was nobody at the door. She stuck her head out into the hall of her apartment, looking up and down the corridor.

She shut the door, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes; she must be more tired than she thought to be hearing things now. She sighed, plopping down onto the sofa and flicking on the television. She needed to be at work in a few hours, so there was no point in trying to get any more sleep. She’d watch some TV for an hour, take a shower really fast, and head out.

 

_ SLAM _

 

Sam nearly jumped out of her skin. She stared at the door, her eyes wide and her ears open. She had definitely heard

 

_ SLAM _

 

Her blood ran cold. It wasn’t coming from the front door. She stood up from her seat, listening out for the next

 

_ SLAM _

 

Her head snapped towards the hall. She crept silently towards the mouth of the corridor, fear

 

_ SLAM _

 

entering her heart as she stood before the gaping maw of darkness. Her feet shuffled across the carpet, watching as the

 

_ SLAM _

 

door to her closet rattled. She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. Her fingers closed around the doorknob, and the rattling stopped. Her hands shook as she slowly turned the knob, the latch clicking open and the hinges creaking. She clicked on the light.

At first, she couldn’t see anything out of place. Coats hanging from hooks on the back wall, canvases both empty and messily painted resting beneath the coats. The tarp she had thrown over her latest project still stood in the center of the closet -- she froze.

She could see a pair of pale, gnarled feet sticking out from under the tarp.


	6. The Hall Monitor

The halls of East Brunesee High sat empty, as one would expect after school hours. The custodians had all gone their separate ways, having each been assigned their own sections to work with. Amanda sighed in exasperation as she reluctantly entered the custodial closet nearest to the cafeteria; she had been given the unfortunate role of dust-mopping the halls and stairwells.

As she retrieved her trusty dust-mop and locked the closet back up, she looked up and down the hallway. The lights above were a mix of on and off, alternating with each bulb, leaving large patches of inky darkness between rather dim halos of light. She placed her mop on the floor, and began her first pass down the hall.

She laughed inwardly as she noticed her pace speed up in those dark gaps between lights, shaking her head at her childishness. No matter how long she had been at this job, no matter how much older she got, schools would always be creepier after dark than during the day, it seemed. As she reached the end of the hall, she hung left, following the beige tiles into the math wing of the school.

As she passed each door, she peered through the windows into the darkness of each class. Upon passing one in particular, Room 121, she paused.

Squinting through the darkness, she could see someone sitting at one of the desks. Their silhouette was clearly visible against the streetlight shining through the window, but any particular features were lost on her. She reached for her keys, unlocking the door and stepping inside. The sensor overhead blinked, and the lights flicked on. She shut her eyes and rubbed at her lids, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness.

Once her vision returned, she turned to look at the desk that the figure had been sitting at. To her surprise, the seat was not only empty, but pushed in, undisturbed from its spot at the desk. She crouched, looking under the desks in the event that they had hidden when she had entered.

“I must be more tired than I thought…” She muttered, rubbing her eyes again. She turned back out the door and locked it once again. The lights would go out on their own.

As she returned to the hall to continue her job, she paused, something down the hall catching her eye; one of the lockers lining either side of the hall was open, sitting right in the middle of a dim halo of light. Curious, she peered inside as she passed by with her mop. The locker itself was empty, the inside dark enough that she could barely see the back of it.

Without thinking much of it, she shut the door, studying the number on the front: 131. She continued a few doors down the hall, before stopping dead in her tracks.

A soft creaking echoed down the halls.

Had the halls been alive with the energy and bustle of people, there was no way she would have heard it. But the emptiness brought with it a silence that could be shattered merely by the sound of a pin dropping.

She glanced back. The locker door sat open, deathly still just as she had first seen it, as though she had never closed it to begin with. She propped the handle of her mop against the wall and walked back to the locker. Once more, she peered in, half expecting something to be there that hadn’t been before. She pushed the door closed again upon deciding that there was nothing inside, backed up, and waited.

The locker sat closed, and didn’t open again.

Satisfied, she returned to her mop. No sooner had her palm hit the handle that she once again heard that creaking noise. She spun around, and the moment her eyes met the locker door, the creaking ceased. It lay open once more.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. She would need to come back later with her tools and try to fix the hinges. She continued down the hall and turned the corner into the science wing.

The evening drew on as she pushed her mop along the floor. Checking her phone, she saw that it was time for her break, and so she left her mop leaning against the wall and headed towards the stairway down to the break room. As she ventured down, it struck her just how silent the evening had been. She had yet to see anyone else; the classes were all locked up, and there were no signs of the carts the other janitors pushed around with their supplies.

As she arrived in the basement and turned the corner past the lower gym and into the break room, she stopped. The room was empty. No people, no bags or lunches, and no furniture aside from the coffee table in the center of the room.

She glanced at the plaque outside the door. This was definitely the break room.

“Hello?” She called, peeking into the office that sat at the corner of the room. Still no one. The air was still and stuffy, and she adjusted her shirt in an attempt to assuage her unease. “Must be in the break room upstairs…” She tried to reason; though, what were the odds that everyone else had been assigned a section nearer to that room than this one?

Trying to keep her wits about her, she turned back into the hall. Her lunch bag was gone as well, so someone else must have taken it by mistake. Just as she was about to reach the stairwell, she froze.

In the hall behind her, she could hear a tapping -- footsteps, she thought at first, but after a moment, she realized that the steps were too far apart, too uneven and without any sort of rhythm, a gait that matched nobody’s she knew.

She peered back from where she had come from. The hall was empty, but the footsteps were drawing nearer.

“Hello?” She called, trying to hide the trembling in her voice.

Then, she saw it.

Huddled against the wall, in one of the dark spots, she could faintly see the silhouette of -- something. At first she thought it may have been a student, but then she realized that it couldn't have been; they looked to be hunched over, making themselves seem far smaller than they actually were.

They sidled along the wall, their steps still off-beat and rhythmless. She gulped back her fear, realizing that this could be a person in need of help, and called again: “H-Hello?”

Even if it was human, as she had hoped, it wouldn't have been able to smell her fear. In fact, she wasn't sure this thing -- this whatever-it-was -- could smell at all without a nose.

But it could certainly hear her fear.

The silhouette lunged forward, and Amanda found herself rooted to the spot in terror. It vanished in the light. It reappeared in the dark. It bounded closer to her -- closer -- and closer still.

She could smell iron. A sickening sweetness. Decay.

Its head bobbed, like some sort of sick angler-style lure. Its arms stretched out to her, sharp claws glinting in the darkness. Its mouth gaped wide open to swallow her whole.

Her legs wobbled, and she slid down the wall, watching as certain death bounded closer. She shut her eyes, a million thoughts racing through her mind. She hadn't kissed her cats goodbye. She hadn't answered her mother’s message asking what sort of birthday cake she'd like. She hadn't spoken to her boyfriend since last night.

Time passed. The tapping stopped. Silence. Slowly, she cracked her eyes open, scanning the hall. It was empty, with no sign of the monster she had seen.

She could feel a laugh trying to pry itself from her throat. “I'm losing it.” She reasoned, sobbing and laughing. “I'm so tired I'm losing it…”

She pushed herself to her feet, looking again down the hall; more specifically, at the lights overhead.

Light. Dark. Light. Dark.

She didn’t realize the light above her was on until she heard the growling behind her.


	7. Robin's Camera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM A JOURNAL FOUND IN THE WOODS SURROUNDING SHOVE PARK IN CAMILLUS, NY. MUCH OF THE DOCUMENT WAS RENDERED UNREADABLE DUE TO EXPOSURE TO THE ELEMENTS. WORDS CONTAINED IN BRACKETS WERE ABLE TO BE RESTORED. ELLIPSES IN BRACKETS INDICATE SECTIONS THAT WERE UNABLE TO BE RESTORED.

My friend [Robin] went missing last year. She was always the [night-owl] between us. I remember the night she went missing, she told me that she was going out for a walk in the woods. She wanted to take pictures of foxes, she told me; she was a photography student, you see. Her last words to me were, “See you tomorrow morning.”

But she didn’t see me the next morning. Or the morning after that. Her parents called around the neighborhood, asking if anyone had seen her. I told them what I knew, and we formed up a search party. We couldn’t find her. The only trace that she had even been in the woods was a shoe, and [Robin]’s camera.

They called off the search the other day. The film in the camera had been developed, but nothing unusual was found. No tampering. No indication that she had captured whatever had happened to her on film. The police reported that the only thing the pictures showed was [Robin] in the woods, smiling into the [camera]. Behind her in every shot were pairs of strange glowing lights; the [eyes] of nocturnal animals, the police assumed, considering she had been out to photograph wildlife.

The running theory is that she had been attacked by foxes or wolves who felt that she had been threatening their cubs. Her parents begged them to keep looking, if for no other reason than to try and locate her body, but the police refused.

Something strange happened last week.

I promise you, whoever is reading this, that I didn’t intend to go into the woods. I was standing by the treeline, it’s true, but all I wanted was to silently mourn my lost friend in our favorite spot. Before I knew what was happening, the dirt underneath me gave away, and I fell into a ravine. I think I may have sprained my ankle, but I’m not sure. All I know is that it hurt like the devil.

I saw [Robin].

She was standing a few meters in front of me. One of her shoes was missing. She looked pale and thin, though I wasn’t too surprised by that. I was just happy to see her [alive].

But [she didn’t smile] at me.

Instead, she turned around and headed back into the forest.

I woke up the next morning at the top of the ravine. I was found by a couple of kids that had come to the park to play softball. My parents took me to the hospital, but when I told them that I had seen [Robin], they dismissed it as me having a bad dream. They were lying, I know it.

The doctors, the police, none of them believed me. They were all lying to me. Something was wrong, and I was being lied to about my friend.

This morning, I went to [Robin]’s house. Her [parents were gone]. They had apparently moved in the middle of the night.

I’ve never been one for conspiracy theories, but this was the last straw. Something strange was going on, and I was going to find out what it was

[...]

Tonight, I went into the woods. I needed to find [Robin]. She was the key to all of [...]

and snarled at me. I ran [...]

it’s going to find me please whoever finds this [...]

my name is [...]my name is [...]mynameis[...]nam e [...]pleasen o myn ameis[...] whywontyou le tm e sa y it

stayawystayawaystyawaypleasestayaway[...]

eye [...]

Igot away f uck I gota way. I t cut me. It cut me on my leg. But Im fine. I can fix this. It lost me So long as Im q u iet i can stay h ere until morning

Please, whoever finds this, you need to go into the woods. Were both here. That thing is here too, but it hasnt found us yet. Its coming but it doesnt know where we  a re.

[Robin] and I need y ou.

Please help us

[...]

pl eas e h e l p


	8. Eclipse

Sam shot up, having been startled awake by -- something. They glanced about their room in the darkness, squinting to try and make out any discernible shapes. They groped for their phone.

As they turned it on, the first thing they noticed was the time: 3 A.M. The second thing they noticed was an emergency alert, sitting at the top of the third thing they noticed: text and call notifications, hundreds of them.

They unlocked their phone, tapping the emergency alert. In large, red letters, the alert read simply, “DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON”. They cocked an eyebrow. Some jackass playing a joke before filing their resignation, perhaps? Or maybe whatever system was in place to send out emergency alerts had been hacked?

Regardless, they swung their legs over the side of their bed, rubbing their eyes and walking towards the door. They swiped the alert away, instead going into their texts.

The first one they saw was from their mother; odd, as the two had had a falling out the year prior. The text read, “It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

“That so?” They scoffed, rolling their eyes. They swiped the message away, moving on to the next.

They stopped in their tracks, staring at the message, a mix of perplexed and unsettled.

“It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

It was from their ex, Richard.

“Well, that’s… spooky,” they thought to theirself.

Again, they swiped.

Again, they were greeted with, “It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

This one was from their girlfriend, Sally.

They swiped.

Their father, “It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

Swipe.

Their manager, “It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

Swipe.

Their sister, “It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

Swipe.

A random number, “It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

Swipe. Random. Swipe. Random. Swipe. Random.

The rest were all random. Numbers that they didn’t recognize. Numbers from out of state. Numbers from Canada, from Mexico. Numbers from entirely different continents.

They all read the same, “It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

“Something must have glitched,” Sam thought, though they could feel the goosebumps rising on their arms. “A bug in my phone’s OS, or something.”

They checked their voicemail. It was full, though, that wasn’t a surprise, as they rarely took the time to clean out the older messages.

They tapped the newest one, and held the phone up to their ear.

“It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

They dropped their phone in shock. The voice that had come through the other end was… No, it had to be another glitch, just their speaker messing up. That voice, it sounded human. Too human. It sounded the way something in the uncanny valley would look.

They picked their phone back up, their hands trembling, and they checked the next recording.

“It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

The same voice, although this one had a hint of familiarity to it. They checked the number; it was their coworker, Steven.

The next message, “It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

The next was a message from last month, their manager leaving a message asking for them to fill in for someone else.

They shook their head, scoffing. This had to be a joke. Someone was punking them. Or maybe their phone had gotten a virus.

They pulled up their phone’s keypad, dialing in Sally’s number and raising it to their ear. It rang one, twice, three times. They heard someone on the other end pick up.

“Hey, Sally. Sorry if I woke you, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay, I woke up with a bunch of texts and an emergency alert--”

“It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

They froze. Sally had spoken to them in that uncanny voice. The voice that was foreign and yet unmistakably hers.

“Come again?”

Silence.

“Sally, are you there? Sal?”

Silence.

Click.

She had hung up.

Sam glanced around; they had walked into the living room, and though there had always been a slight draft, they knew that the chill over their body had originated elsewhere.

Somebody else, they would call somebody else. Kristine, their best friend, she hadn’t left a message on their phone.

They dialed in her number, and waited.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Four times.

Click.

“Hello?”

“Kris! Thank god, are you alright?”

“Sam? Yeah, I’m fine, what’s the matter?” Her voice was groggy; she had just gotten up.

“Listen, do you have an emergency alert on your phone? A bunch of text messages, missed calls?”

Kris was quiet a moment, before replying, “Yeah. What’s this alert, something about the moon?”

“I don’t know what it is, but I have a bunch of texts and missed calls telling me to go outside. I just called Sally, and all she did was repeat the messages back to me.” Sam explained.

They could hear a rustling on the other end. “Weird. Everything is so bright outside.”

“Kris?” Sam felt their blood run cold. “You’re not actually looking outside are you?”

Silence.

“Kris!”

“Uh? Sorry, it’s just really… bright.” Kris mumbled. “The moon is so huge… It’s so bright…”

Sam hurried to the window, looking out at Kris’ house. They could see her through the window, her blinds raised.

Her eyes were wide open, and yet…

Sam stumbled backwards, their legs losing strength.

Her eyes had become a milky off-white, and they had seemed to glow with an otherworldly light.

“It’s a beautiful night out.” Kris’ voice echoed from the phone. “Come outside.”

Sam hung up, tossing their phone across the room.

A nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. They needed to wake theirself up somehow.

They hurried to the kitchen, turning on the faucet in the sink and splashing the icy water against their face. They could feel their heart beginning to pound against their ribs, the thumps echoing in their ears as they tried to keep calm, as they tried to reason with theirself that it was all just a bad dream.

They looked up, and screamed.

In the window stood someone they had never seen before, his eyes that same milky color as Kris’, and glowing just the same.

“It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

They scrambled to their feet, dashing for the knife block. They drew the first one their hand came into contact with.

“I’m calling the police!” They cried.

Then, another face popped up in the window; another stranger. Then another. Another. Their eyes glowed brilliantly, illuminating the dark kitchen.

“It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

Sam cussed under their breath, hurrying out of the kitchen and into

The den’s window exploded in a rain of glass, arms and hands all reaching in, groping blindly for the outlier.

“It’s a beautiful night out. Come outside.”

Sam spun on their heel, leaping up the stairs two at a time. They could hear the windows and doors creaking and breaking. They reached for the knob to their bedroom door, some instinct carried over from childhood suggesting that hiding under their covers would provide them a safe haven.

They made the mistake of looking over their shoulder.

The strangers were bounding along the walls, faster than their eyes could follow, arms outstretched and reaching. Their lower bodies seemed to be made of smoke, the streams all connected to a stem of sorts, as though they were the fingers of a malformed hand.

They grabbed Sam by the shoulders and hips, pulling them back. Sam screamed and struggled, their fists flying as they tried to fight off their attackers. The knife slashed and plunged and stabbed, though no amount of damage seemed to affect the disturbed hive.

Sam could feel their arms and legs and body being scraped by glass as they were pulled out of their den window. Hands and fingers grabbed them by the head, holding open their eyelids.

Their struggled died as they finally glimpsed the moon.

It was bright.

It was beautiful.

They felt the fear leave their body, followed by everything else.

Everything, except for a relief; a relief that they had finally come outside.

You should go out and join them.

It’s a beautiful night out.


	9. Wisdom

Danielle suppressed a groan of discomfort, nursing her cheek. It had felt as though something was stabbing into her gums at the back of her mouth for the last week. It had started at her wisdom teeth, but it had spread to her other molars, and so she had decided to take a trip to the dentist. Thankfully she had insurance through her parents, so hopefully she wouldn’t need to pay too much when the bill inevitably came.

“Danielle Roberts?” The receptionist called. Danielle stood, and he pointed her down the hall. “Dr. Harrington, fourth room on the left.” She nodded graciously to him, and briskly walked down the hall to the specified room.

Upon entering, she set her jacket on one of the chairs against the wall, before climbing onto the medical chair in the center of the room. She glanced about, nerves alight with anxiety. She dearly wished that her teeth wouldn’t need any pulling.

“Good afternoon, Danielle Roberts?” In stepped an older woman wearing medical scrubs and a white coat. “I’m Dr. Harrington, I’ll be taking care of you today.” She sent Danielle a grin, and she couldn’t help but smile back. “Just relax, and I’ll go in and see what the problem is.”

And so, it began. Dr. Harrington had her tilt back in the chair, her mouth opened wide for examination. Danielle suppressed winces of pain as Dr. Harrington prodded where her wisdom teeth would be, thousand of tiny little pinpricks digging deeper into her gums.

“Hmm…” Dr. Harrington mumbled as she examined her teeth. “I must say, your teeth look nice and healthy so far, aside from some plaque build-up.” She prodded the spot again, and Danielle couldn’t help but jump as she felt an even sharper stab than usual, following by several more little prickling sensations. “But, of course, wisdom teeth can be a whole different beast to tackle, regardless of whether they’re healthy or not. Unfortunately, it looks like they haven’t broken through the gums just yet, so we’ll need to take a couple of x-rays to see if there are any internal issues.”

 

The rest of the appointment went slowly and, due to her wisdom tooth, rather painfully. Dr. Harrington did her best to reassure her as she guided her through the process of what she called a ‘bitewing x-ray’, whatever that was.

At long last, the x-rays were finished, and Dr. Harrington had left to have the photos developed.

Danielle sat alone in the room, the only sound being the ticking of the clock on the wall to her left. After about thirty minutes, Dr. Harrington returned, pale in the face and looking as though she was about to be sick.

“Doctor?” Danielle asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Well…” Dr. Harrington began. “The x-rays show that the roots of the teeth around the back of your mouth have started to rot away. We’ll do our best to save them, but… Well! Some good news; we won’t be pulling any wisdom teeth today.”

Danielle gulped. “What’s the bad news?”

Silence.

And then,

“Those aren’t wisdom teeth.”


	10. The Catacomb

_ Drip. _

_ Drip. _

_ Drip. _

Susie grit her teeth, holding her breath and trying to ignore the constant  _ drip, drip, dripping _ that echoed from somewhere deeper inside of the cave she had found herself in lest she surrender herself to madness. Her hand ached still, the stumps where her right ring finger and pinky had once been wet with blood that had since begun to coagulate. She remembered it all; the gnashing of teeth, the shredding of flesh, the cries that had died upon Tom’s lips as that creature had pounced.

The dripping continued.

She let out her breath, shaking, covering her mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. She climbed to her feet, her hands groping blindly and finding the uneven surface of the catacomb walls. She could barely see anything; her eyes had just barely begun to adjust to the darkness.

Her flashlight. She must have dropped it in the chaos.

She could just barely make out the shape on the ground, and she held back the urge to retch. It wasn’t Tom’s body. It was just a sheet. It wasn’t Tom’s body. It was just a pile of old clothes. It wasn’t Tom’s body. It was just a rock formation.

The iron in the air was all that prevented her from fully believing her own denial.

She needed to move. She needed to find a way out. She needed to find the others. Preferably before the creature found them.

Or her.

The tomb was silent aside from that accursed  _ drip, drip, dripping. _ No footsteps. No breathing.

The walls continued, and she kept her hand against it for fear that her nerves would force her to her knees otherwise. There was a chattering in her head, a noise that fuzzed her thoughts. She needed to focus. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind.

The deeper she went, the louder the dripping became. Louder. Closer. The walls were closing in. Dear God how had this happened? They had just woken up in this place, no memory of the previous night. How had they gotten here? Why, why was this happening? Oh God, where was the exit? Where was the creature? Stalking her? Watching from a distance? Was this a tunnel, a large room that the monster was prowling through? A growl in the air, or a gust of wind? The darkness was becoming all-consuming. There was nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

A light.

There, around the corner of the tunnel, was the faint glimmer of a light. She sped up, nearly throwing all caution to the wind and sprinting and screaming and crying for help, but she kept control.

Turning the corner, she saw the familiar faces of Mac and Reggie, both of them sitting against the wall, illuminated only by the dying light of the lantern they had found.

Mac stood, scratching his beard, his hand coming away red. Susie remembered; he had been standing right next to Tom when it had happened.

“Susie!” Reggie sighed in relief. “Thank God, we thought you were--”

“We need to move.” Mac ordered. “It isn’t safe here.” He turned to Reggie. “Do you still have that map we found?”

They shuffled uncomfortably. “I...dropped it when that --  _ thing _ \-- attacked us.”

“Shit.” Mac muttered. Silence hung in the air between the three of them.

Silence.

The dripping had stopped.

“Kill the light!” Reggie urged, and Mac quickly snuffed out the lantern.

They held still. They could hear crunching down the hall, coming closer. Scratching; claws dragging along the granite.

Susie could feel a presence in the corridor with them. Closer. Closer. She could feel it passing in front of her. She could smell its foul, dead breath. She felt it breathing on her.

The last thing she heard was her own whimper of fear, followed by footsteps sprinting away down the tunnel.


	11. A Walk Home

Nica hugged her arms to her chest, shivering in the brisk autumn evening air as a breeze passed. She checked her watch; it was 11:30 PM. She mentally cussed out her manager at Mick’s Subs for calling her at the last minute for such a late shift, the door jingling shut behind her. She locked up the door, taking one last glance into the darkness of the shop, before turning around and making her way to the side of the road, waiting next to the bus stop.

Leaves brushed past her feet in the wind, crinkling lightly against the asphalt. She glanced up and down the street, sighing as she noticed that there weren’t any headlights coming down the road. She leaned against the bus stop signpost and adjusted her purse on her shoulder, pulling out her water bottle and taking a sip.

She froze.

To her right, she heard a quiet crunching sound.

A dread hit the pit of her stomach, and she felt her shoulders tense up. She sucked in a breath, glancing at her current companion; someone dressed in a black coat, a red knit cap perched atop their head, their face obscured by shadow as they turned to look away from her, the nearby streetlight only capable of illuminating their back.

Nica could feel her knees wobbling, and she cursed her anxiety for choosing now to strike. She looked back down the road again; still no sign of any buses coming.

She turned to the stranger, set on asking them if they had a bus schedule, but her words caught in her throat, and all she managed to get out was a near-inaudible squeak.

She turned back to the road, her head swimming, her skin feeling tight and cold and clammy. The space between her gut and her chest felt like someone had tied a knot in it. Her spine just below her shoulder-blades felt cramped, a sharp tingle stabbing at her muscles.

The stranger stood there, unmoving.

Nica glanced down the road one last time, before deciding to forget about a ride home; she was just thirty minutes away from home anyway, might as well save the fifty cents.

She began walking down the road, away from the stranger, who still had yet to move. She was getting further away, further, further, and she would look back every so often, that cramp in her core slowly fading away as she made distance between herself and the stranger.

_ Look both ways. _

_ Cross the street. _

As she crossed to the other side of the road, she glanced back at the bus stop.

The stranger was gone.

She should have felt relief. Calm. That cramp in her gut should have faded completely.

Instead, it was replaced by a new sharp tingling; dread. Fear. The ever-present sense of impending doom that would often accompany her anxiety attacks in the past.

She turned back to her determined path home, hugging her arms to her body, suddenly feeling a cold settling deep in the very marrow of her bones. It was all in her head. It was always all in her head. That’s all her anxiety is. All it ever has been. In her head. These cramps, these stabs in her chest that made her feel as though she were in danger, the thoughts that drilled away at her mind and drove her further into anxiety, all in her head.

She was already five minutes into her walk. Twenty-five minutes until she got home.

_ It would be faster if I ran. _

But she didn’t need to run. It was all in her head.

She turned a corner onto a different street, and froze. Her vision seemed to blur and hyperfocus at the same time; the stoops lining the sidewalks, merely steps leading into the warmth of the homes around her, or a hiding place for someone lying in wait to ambush her?

_ They’re just steps. I’m okay. They’re just steps. _

Her legs wobbled with each step she took. Her chest felt tight, and she suddenly took a gasp of air; she hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t been breathing for the past, dear lord, she had no idea.

She paused next to a mailbox, consciously counting her breaths.

_ I know how to breathe. I know how to breathe. In, out. In, out. In, there’s something in the mailbox. _

Nica stared at the receptacle that she had propped herself up with, taking a step back from it.

_ Out. _

She turned back to her path home.

The stoops were reaching out for her, hands that were hiding the strangers from her sight.

_ They’re just stoops. I’m okay. _

Her house was fifteen minutes away, now. She could see the police line that had recently been set up a block or two from where she lived.

The police line.

_ It was just a break-in. I don’t need to worry. _

A woman had been stabbed in the stomach and gutted.

_ The killer is probably long-gone. Skipped town. _

The killer evaded police capture.

_ I’m okay. _

She had begun to walk faster, her legs refusing to listen to the part of her that was trying to remain calm and rational. Ten minutes.

Ten minutes of glancing over her shoulder.

_ Was that a person crouched in the shadows, or just a stray dog? Was that somebody watching me from one of the windows, or just the wind blowing around a curtain? _

Five minutes of glancing over her shoulder.

_ That’s a person standing in the streetlight. That’s a knife in their hand, the light reflected off of its blade blinding me. _

Five seconds of panicked searching in her purse for her house keys.

Four seconds of dread as the scraping of shoes on the asphalt got closer.

Three seconds of fear as the key caught in the lock.

Two seconds of terror as she felt the breathing on her neck.

One second of relief before she found herself with her back to the door as fists pounded it, the wood threatening to buckle.


	12. thispersondoesnotexist

 

If you’ve never heard of ‘thispersondoesnotexist.com’, allow me to explain: ‘thispersondoesnotexist.com’ is a website which hosts an artificial intelligence which is capable of creating realistic images of humans who, as the name implies, aren’t actual people. The AI samples images that are fed to it, and synthesizes an image based off of the information to ‘create’ an entirely new person.

At least, that’s how I understood it, and how most people seem to understand it.

I say ‘understood’, because something happened earlier today that, if we’re meant to believe that the AI truly does output unique images at random, shouldn’t have happened.

I was bored. I’d played all the games I owned and was interested in completing. I didn’t feel like reading, or watching television. I’d just been laying down, spacing out for several hours with nothing to do.

So, I decided to load up the site, just for shits and giggles, really. I just sat there, refreshing the page and watching the pictures load up on the screen. At the time, I was fascinated by the technology behind it, how computers had come so far as to create images that looked so genuine.

I was broken out of my absent-minded stupor when I refreshed the page, to find my own face staring back at me.

At first, I wasn’t sure what to think. I feel like for a solid minute, I just completely blacked out and stared at my picture on the screen.

“Well,” I remember thinking, “this is probably just a funny coincidence. It just looks like me. There’s gotta be some difference.”

I took my laptop into the bathroom, and looked back and forth between the image on-screen and my reflection in the mirror.

There was no mistaking it. It was my face. Perfectly replicated in every way. Every pock mark and acne scar. The mole on my cheek. The same color and shape of the eyes. Everything.

It was uncanny.

So, I closed down the window, and decided to pack it up for the day. I went back to my room, and flipped on the television, hoping to find something to take my mind off of the creepy finding.

That was a few hours ago. I’m locked up in my bathroom now, watching as my reflection is slowly being erased. I can see the tiles of the shower wall behind me in the mirror. My body is fading, almost like someone is turning down the opacity of a layer in Photoshop. I’m forgetting everything, too. My childhood. My school years. My friends, if I had any. My family, if I had any. Even my name is gone.

Please, if you’re reading this, please remember me. Remember me. I can’t remember me. Please remember. I can’t remember. I don’t want to forget. What am I supposed to be remembering? Who wrote all of this? I can’t remember what I’m reading.

Words are fading too fast.

Words fading fast.

Fading.

Fading.

Who

What why

how what who

why

why

 


	13. The Painting

Alice yawned as she allowed her car to coast down the road, the night outside around her gloomy and moonless, the clouds overhead threatening a storm. She glanced at her car’s dashboard, the clock reading 10:52 PM; and she was still over an hour from home. After the traffic in the city, getting stuck in a snowbank, and a blown-out tire that needed to get changed, she could easily conclude that she should have taken her parents up on their offer to have her stay overnight.

She peered through the fog on her windshield, squinting against the horizon; was that -- it was, a lone house on the side of the road! As she approached, she checked her fuel gauge, sighing as she saw the needle wavering near the E.

“Not givin’ me much of a choice…” She muttered sourly, before slowing down and turning into the driveway. She could see a man and woman through the window, an elderly couple as far as she could tell.

She shuddered as she opened her car door, her jacket too thin to protect her from the frigid winds. As she knocked on the door, she glanced around the front of the yard; aside from the mailbox sitting at the edge of the road, it was empty, just a flat blanket of snow.

The door creaked open, and the woman waved for Alice to come on. “Dear, you must be freezing! In, in, you’ll catch your death!”

 

The couple, Henry and Mattie, had taken Alice in without question, providing her with whatever was left over from their dinner (vegetable dumplings) as well as a bed in the spare room.

Alice sighed as she flopped onto the bed, the room warmly yet barely illuminated by the lamp in the corner. She reached into her jacket pocket, checking the time on her phone; almost midnight.

“Shit.” She mumbled, shrugging out of her jacket and draping it over the headboard. She shuffled her way underneath the covers, rolling onto her right side and resting her head.

A minute or two passed, and Alice suddenly felt very awake, despite the bags under her eyes. She was exhausted, yes, but something, some esoteric instinct, kept her from falling completely to sleep.

She rolled onto her back, then her front, still unable to find a position comfortable enough to fall asleep. Rolling onto her left side, she huffed in frustration, her eyes screwed tightly shut, but it was no good.

Annoyed, she opened her eyes and made to sit up… but paused, her eyes growing wide as she stared at the painting on the wall before her.

It was a face, twisted and gnarled, with eyes as large as dinner plates. Its head was hairless, and it seemed to be lacking a nose. Its mouth was wide and dark and cavernous, and its teeth were so thin and sharp, like needles, that Alice had almost assumed it was toothless.

The painting stared down at her, hunger in its eyes as though studying prey. Whoever had painted it must have done so very fast, as Alice thought to herself that there was no way someone would have a twisted enough imagination to paint something so grotesque from their own subconscious.

She shivered, pushing the covers off and creeping across the floor. Surely the couple wouldn’t mind if she just turned this thing around for the night; she would return it to normal in the morning, they would never even need to know.

Her fingers reached for the edge of the painting, trying to find the seam between frame and wall.

There was none.

As her fingers hit the place where the frame became flush with the wall, she realized that between her and the creature was herself -- her reflection.

Alice’s shriek was cut off by the smashing of glass, and the gnashing of teeth.


	14. The Hunt

Petra held her breath, laying low in the underbrush and watching as the light drifted along beyond the foliage. She could hear the posse of hunters shouting, yelling at her to come out. Her leg throbbed, the bullet wound a grim reminder of what awaited her should she reveal herself.

She glanced about, locking her sights on a nearby bush. She waited, waited, watching as the light continued on.

Now!

She dove for the bush, going still as she heard a branch snap under her foot. The light and the voices stopped.

“What was that?”

“It must be her!”

“Everyone keep your eyes and ears open. Don’t let her get away!”

Petra grit her teeth, her jaw aching as she tried to stop herself from making noise. She could see the group disbanding, guns raised, watching the trees. One of them was creeping closer and closer to her hiding spot.

She didn’t have any choice; he would see her, and he would shoot her, and she would be dead.

With a roar, she leapt out, her claws sinking into the man’s throat and shredding apart his larynx. He fell, gurgling as he bled out. The other men turned, shouting and firing their guns at her. She felt the silver striking her body, but she refused to give in.

She pounced at the group, her teeth sinking into he neck of one of the men and gnashing and tearing at his flesh. The lantern fell. The woods were plunged into darkness, save for the brief bursts of flame from the barrels of their rifles.

Claws slashed.

Teeth gnashed.

Blood spilled.

Then, a blinding pain exploded through Petra’s skull, and she fell to the ground. Her fur was caked in gore and mud, and as the life left her body, she found herself staring at the youngest member of the posse, his gun smoking, one of his arms bleeding from a nasty-looking bite mark.

The beast inside of her was pleased, contradicting the last vestiges of dread in her dying heart.

The terror had just begun.


	15. Unnoticed

My hands shook, my aim wavering as I fired, the last zombie dropping to the ground before me. I barely had a second to breath, before that familiar howl echoed across the city. I checked my pack; not nearly enough ammo for another horde.

I dashed towards one of the many hollowed-out stores dotting the street, pushing through the door and slamming it shut behind me. I could hear feet pounding the asphalt, growls and roars following me as I ran towards the back of the store to look for any ammunition the store may have held, whether from before the apocalypse or as a result of survivors holing up inside, I didn’t care which.

I paused, crouching low behind a shelf, perking my head up; over the cacophony, I could hear something. A soft, repetitive  _ ‘thud’ _ . Footsteps.

I wasn’t alone.

I drew my pistol, peering around the corner of the shelf. I heard a door open nearby, and my head snapped to look in the direction of the sound. Something wasn’t right. The sound seemed to be muffled, for some reason.

The thumping continued, and I felt a chill run down my spine. I pressed a button on my controller, pausing the game and listening closely. The ground vibrated with each sound.

I reached up to remove my headset, before freezing, a deathly cold entering my body, starting in my gut and spreading outward quickly. I let out a gurgle of shock, the virtual world spinning as I tumbled backwards. That ice-cold shock entered my body again, and again, as my hands trembled, trying to remove my headset.

“Shh…” I heard, a voice unfamiliar to me, a finger pressing itself to my lips.

“Just play your game.”


	16. Click-Bait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Contains implied transphobia, gore, and mention of bodily fluids.

“We are now entering the Amber Grove Asylum, reportedly home to the anguished, restless souls of all who perished here.” James commentated, his charismatic grin reflected in the camera lens. “Legends say that the asylum was shut down decades ago after a group of inmates escaped, viciously murdering the staff before vanishing into the night; now, we’re about to step on in and see if there’s any credence at all to the stories.”

“Aaaand, cut it there.” Lars said, stopping the recording and giving James the thumbs-up. “We’re good.” He set the camcorder down in the back of the van, looking up at the third member of their trio, Laurie, as he sorted through the group’s supplies. “You comin’ or what, man?”

“What.” She muttered from the passenger seat. “I told you guys; haunted houses, haunted forests, haunted tunnels, whatever, that’s all fine. But this? This is just--”

“Click-bait?” Lars finished.

“The perfect set for our best documentary yet?” James chimed in.

“Tasteless.” Laurie scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s tasteless. You know as well as I do that nothing like that ever happened here. It’s just a stupid legend that some ignorant schmucks from the 60’s came up with to keep their kids away so they wouldn’t get lockjaw or tetanus or whatever.”

“Laurie. Laurie, Laurie, Laurie.” James chuckled. “ _ You _ know that.  _ Lars _ knows that.  _ I _ know that.” He patted the top of the camera, only for Lars to swat his hand away. “ _ They? _ Don’t know that. C’mon, this could be our big break. You wanna get into acting school, don’tcha? Imagine what this could do for your future career; go in there, put on a good performance, you’ll be walking the red carpet in no time!”

“I refuse to be accessory to another farce.” Laurie crossed her arms, turning up her nose. “This is too far. You’ve let internet fame cloud your judgement and ruin what used to be a creative mind. A haunted asylum? Really? You’re relying on one of if not the worst tropes in horror.”

“It was a slow week!” James retorted hotly, scowling. “I can’t always go pumping out gems at the drop of a hat.”

“It’s not even just a lack of creativity, it’s just straight-up insulting to the patients who were kept here to peddle this bullshit story.”

“Sheesh, what are you, on your period or something?”

“Would you two chucklefucks pipe down?” Lars muttered, wiping off the lens as he double-checked their equipment. “Look, Laurie, this’ll be the last one. If you don’t want to make these videos anymore, we can’t stop you, but we need you for this one. Just one last video, and you can quit.”

Laurie sighed, pondering her predicament. “You guys are my ride home, so I guess I don't have much of a choice; the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can go back to bed.” She climbed out of the van, and the three made their way towards the building.

 

 

 

The door swung open with a loud screech, the bottom of the door scraping along the weathered flooring. The walls were rotten and decaying, robes and trash and papers and all manner of refuse scattered across the floor.

“Camera on in 3.” Lars said, motioning a countdown, before starting the recording.

“We’re inside now,” James narrated, “man, look at this place. You guys think it was just left like this?”

Laurie shrugged, and Lars muttered, “Who knows? I wonder if there are any bloodstains around, then we’ll be able to find out where the staff died.”

The three headed further into the building, poking and prodding around, with James playing up anything and everything which he supposed one could find interesting or creepy, and Laurie staying mostly reserved and quiet, clearly put off by their collective intrusion.

“Whoa.” James held up a hand to stop them about thirty minutes into their exploration, as they were passing through a foul-smelling restroom. “Did you guys feel that?”

Laurie rolled her eyes, having done this song and dance far too many times by now; as the camera turned towards her, she nodded, shuddering. “I felt some… some kind of chill.”

“Here, help me with this thing.” James ordered, pointing to a stack of boxes. He and Laurie began to take down the stack, until finally they were able to push the box over; Laurie gagged as the stench of rotting meat filled her nostrils, overpowering the already-stale and rank air of the building.

On the floor was a bloody, mangled mess, ribs and flesh and viscera decaying, flies and maggots swarming the offal.

The three retched at the stench, and Lars turned the camera away, spitting and covering his nose and mouth. Laurie hurried to a nearby bin, the contents of her stomach quickly forcing their way out.

“Off, turn it off!” James barked, and Lars did so. “Fuck. I didn’t think it’d rot that fast.”

“ _ You _ did this?!” Laurie snapped, glaring at him. “What the hell, man?”

“Quit being such a baby, our viewers are gonna eat this stuff up!” He paused. “Well. Not literally, that’d be disgusting, but--”

“I thought we agreed to just splatter some pig’s blood on the floor.” Lars said, pointedly. “What the hell is this? Where did you even find it?”

“Relax,” James said, “it’s just some ground beef, ground-up sausages, and ribs I picked up at the supermarket. The skull is fake, and the hair is just some strands I pulled out from one of my sister’s wigs. Lars, start the camera back up, I wanna get a shot of one of us picking it up--”

“That’s it.” Laurie scoffed as Lars started the recording again. “I’m done. I’m not doing this anymore.”

“Whaddya mean you’re done?” James scowled. “We just got here! We still need to start the seance and try out that ghost recorder thing you bought--”

“No. I’m done.” Laurie glared at James, a mix of disgust and resentment on her face. “You went too far this time. I’m tired of faking this stupid ‘paranormal’ bullshit. I’m tired of meeting up with you guys just to go to the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere in the middle of the goddamn night so we can record some bogus ‘ghost’ encounter, all just because you thought your attic was haunted in the eighth grade and got a bunch of views on the video you recorded for ‘proof’.”

She spun on her heel, and Lars reached out for her, grabbing her by the shoulder. “Laurie, hold on a--”

“Don’t touch me!” She shouted, pushing him away, the camera falling to the ground with a loud clatter. “This was the last straw! This was fun at first, making some fun ghost movies with my friends, but you guys have turned this whole thing into something abhorrent -- something disturbing -- dare I even say evil.” At Lars’ look of resentment, she added, “You guys changed.”

“ _ We _ changed?” Lars shot back, picking up the camcorder and looking it over. “Look who’s talking! You used to be cool, but then you decided to cut your balls off and got all sensitive and shit!  _ We _ haven’t changed.  _ You _ did.”

“I don’t have to take this from you. From either of you!” Laurie snarled. “Fuck getting a ride home, I’m walking! You two can go fuck yourselves!”

“James, would you -- James?” Lars had spun around, only to find their third member missing. “Jim? Buddy, where’d you go?”

Laurie paused as she reached the door, turning back into the room; Lars stood alone in the center, looking around in confusion.

James was gone.

“James?” She called, peering around the room for a hidden doorway. “Okay, come on. This whole shitshow is pretty low to begin with, but this? This is fucking subterranean.” She turned to Lars. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The hidden door. You think I don’t know what you guys are doing? Oh, we’ll distract Laurie with something and she’ll turn her back long enough for one of us to hide. Pretty brilliant for a couple of no-talent hacks.”

But Lars’ expression didn’t change; he was still in shock. “Laurie, I swear, man, I have no idea where he went.”

“Yeah, sure.” Laurie scoffed, crossing the room and checking the walls. “What, is it like, you press a tile and a door opens, or some stupid shit like that? Come on, what’s the gag?”

Lars stared at her, and as the room stayed silent, she turned to stare at him in return.

“You’re… You’re just bluffing, right? This is all just some sort of prank.” Lars shook his head. Laurie could feel her pulse quickening, and she gulped, her throat suddenly dry. “Ha… You -- you almost got me! Man, I thought I could get into acting school, but you -- you’re really making it convincing! Cut the act!”

“I’m not acting.” Lars mumbled, his face pale.

The two stood in silence for what felt like an eternity, when suddenly, the quiet was shattered by an ear-splitting shriek, echoing through the facility.

“James!” Lars cried, running back into the hall and leaving Laurie in the darkness of the restroom.

“Lars! Lars, wait up!” She ran after him, her heart thundering in her ears as she ran after the swaying cone of his flashlight.

She could hear his footsteps fading, the light becoming further and further, turning more and more corners. Then, a scream, Lars’ screams and cries as he howled in agony, guiding her into a large, atrium-like room.

“Lars?” She called, hurrying to his quivering light. She stopped as he came into view, her hands shooting up to her mouth in shock.

Lars lay on the floor, gripping his leg and continuing to scream in pain, the camcorder next to him. Through his foot was a large, rusty nail, piercing right out through the top.

“Fuck! Fuck, help me, please help me!” He wailed.

“O-Okay, hold on,” Laurie stammered, her mind whirling as she pulled off her jacket and began to wrap it around his foot. “We’ve gotta get to the van. You have the keys?”

Lars shook his head. “James had them.”

“Shit.” She muttered. “Alright, maybe we can hotwire it or…” She paused, a scraping sound catching her attention from behind.

She spun around just in time to see a shadow speeding towards her face, a sickening CRUNCH echoing through the room as her vision went red, stars dancing in front of her eyes. The numbness turned slowly to pain, only to turn once more to numbness as the object struck, again, again, again.

  
  
  


“You’re sure you didn’t catch me on that thing?” James asked, glancing at Lars in the passenger seat as the latter looked over the camcorder.

“I don’t think so. The fall damaged the lens, and with all the dust and shit in there, it would have been too cloudy to see you even if it hadn’t.” Lars explained, nursing his foot. “Shit, man, I’m gonna get tetanus.”

“You’ll be fine.” James waved away his concerns. “You know what this video will do for us? We’ll be swimming in so much cash and fame you can just buy a new foot.”

The two sat in silence as they coasted down the road, back into town. Lars glanced out the window, watching the streetlights slowly rushing forth to greet them.

“You think we’ll get caught?”

“Of course we won’t. They’ll rule it an accident or something. Maybe they’ll think our ‘ghost’ was just some homeless dude that went nuts and attacked a couple of poor saps that happened to wander into his shelter.”

“You remembered to wipe down the handle, right? If they find your prints on that sledgehammer--”

“What do I look like, some kind of idiot?”

Silence once more. Lars checked the clock on the dashboard; it was almost three in the morning.

The car slowly rolled to a stop as they neared the edge of town, and James looked down at the dashboard, a confused look on his face. “Shit, out of gas.”

“You’re kidding.” Lars groaned, his foot throbbing.

“Quit your bellyaching, I’ll just call my dad and have him come pick us up.” James reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone and tapping the power button, once, twice, five more times. “Fucking -- well, there goes that plan; battery’s dead.” He shook his phone, tapping the screen. “Weird. Could’ve sworn I charged it right before we left…”

Then, there was a click, and the two were plunged into darkness.

“The hell?!” Lars cussed, his breathing labored. “James, come on, man, this isn’t funny! Quit screwing around and get me to a doctor!”

“I’m not doing anything!” James retorted. “This old piece of junk--” He slammed his hand on the wheel, and the car suddenly jumped back to life.

The headlights shone before them, illuminating the entrance of Amber Grove Asylum.

The two sat in stunned silence, exchanging glances with one another that spoke nothing short of terror. They heard the back of the van pop open, a mangled, dripping face slowly entering their peripherals.

_ “Leaving so soon?” _


	17. Sorry

Rose glanced down at her phone, checking the time; it was quarter-to-nine, and it would take at least twenty minutes to get back home. Her parents were going to kill her, she just knew it.

“Lily, come on, it’s time to go home!” She called from the end of the driveway to her younger sister. Lily came bounding down the pavement, the fake wings and antennae stuck to her yellow-and-black jacket bouncing as she skipped.

“Look how much candy I got!” Lily buzzed, excitedly holding up her plastic pumpkin for Rose to see, the sweets inside threatening to spill out over the top.

“You’ll be bouncing off the walls.” Rose sighed, taking her sister’s hand and leading her down the sidewalk. “Come on, if we hurry we might make it home in time to save me from the earful Mom and Dad are gonna give me.”

“Can’t we stop at just one more house?” Lily begged, tugging on Rose’s arm. “Just one more? Please?”

Rose let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, one more, but then we’re heading home, got it?”

Lily nodded, releasing Rose’s hand and running across the street before Rose could warn her to look both ways. Rose followed Lily’s path, her skin prickling with goosebumps when she saw the large, darkened house that she was heading towards.

She gave chase, following her sister up to the gate. “Lily, come on, let’s pick another house. The lights are out here.”

“Too late!” Lily called, already on the doorstep. She reached up and pressed the doorbell, holding up her pumpkin.

Rose hugged her arms to her torso, rubbing them through her sweater. Looking around, she noticed that the streets were beginning to go empty, the trick-or-treaters that had flocked the streets now sparse, the few remaining kids yawning and rubbing their eyes.

She looked back up to the house, and her blood ran cold as the door slowly creaked open.

Her vision was suddenly plunged into darkness as the streetlight above her flickered, and went out. She squinted through the darkness, but her efforts to locate her sister were futile.

She blinked, and the next thing she knew, the light was back on.

Lily was gone.

“Shit.” She muttered, quickly pushing open the fence and running up to the porch. She rapped on the door, peering in through the windows. “Bring my sister back out here, you creeps! I’m gonna call the cops!”

The only answer she received was the howling of the wind.

She squared her jaw and backed up a couple steps, before lunging forward, bashing the door with her shoulder. The door flew open, and she tumbled into the darkness, sliding across the floor.

She groaned as she pushed herself onto her hands and knees, hissing in pain as she studied her palms; it was too dark to see, but she could definitely feel at least a couple of splinters embedded in her skin.

“Lily?” She called out. “I know you’re here, you freaks. Give me back my sister!”

She jolted in surprise as the door slammed shut behind her, blocking out what little moonlight she had been afforded. She reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone and grimacing; the screen had a crack in it, no doubt from the fall she had just taken. She pressed the power button, but nothing happened.

“I’m gonna call the cops!” She bluffed.

Still, the house remained eerily silent.

Rose clenched her jaw, trying to steady her breathing. She took a step, and then another, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness around her. She could see a light coming from the next room over, and she stepped inside; it was a kitchen. On the table sat two jack-o’-lanterns, one lit, one unlit.

At the table sat a figure, hunched over, with her face buried in her arms. Rose swallowed her anxiety, slowly approaching the woman.

“Ma’am? Hey, my sister came through here. Have you seen her?” She waited a moment, then a moment more, but the woman refused to answer.

She tapped her shoulder, but still, this elicited no response from the woman. Rose felt a chill run down her spine, and for a brief moment, she suspected that the woman before her was either dead, or a very convincing Halloween prop; her suspicions were proven false when she noticed the woman’s chest rising and falling.

Rose shook the woman this time, and the woman awoke with a start. “Ma’am,” she said again, “sorry, but I think my sister might have wandered in here. You didn’t see her, did you?”

But the woman didn’t answer. She merely rubbed at her eyes and pushed herself up from her chair, staring forlornly at the pumpkins on the table.

“Hon?”

Rose’s head snapped in the direction of the voice; a man stood in the doorway to the next room over.

“Sorry,” the woman said with a yawn, “I must have dozed off.”

“It’s alright.” The man said, walking over and placing a hand on her shoulder. He, too, stared at the pumpkins. “It’s been a year, hasn’t it?”

“To the night.” The woman nodded. “Hard to forget when it’s a holiday.”

Rose cocked her head to the side in confusion, looking between the two. “Um… Excuse me?”

“We can’t blame ourselves.” The man said. “It’s not like we could have known--”

“We didn’t even wait for a response.” The woman interjected. “We just…”

“We thought it was an intruder. It was late, the lights were out. I thought I’d locked the front door.”

“She was so young.” The woman sobbed, holding a hand over her mouth. Rose felt a chill course through her, right to the bone.

“Are you talking about Lily?” She asked. When the couple didn’t respond, she felt that chill turn to a heat, a flame of rage within her. “What happened to Lily?!”

Suddenly, the window behind the couple flew open, blowing the looser papers that had been used as mats for the pumpkins around and startling the three occupants.

“Shit!” The man cussed, hurrying over to the window to shut it. The woman, meanwhile, went to gather up the papers that had been scattered about.

“Here, let me--” Rose began, before stopping, staring down at the newspaper that she had been going for.

 

**ONE DEAD IN HALLOWEEN MANSLAUGHTER**

 

The photo on the front page was one of the house she was currently in.

She briefly scanned the paper, before the woman picked it up, shuffling it into the stack she had made and placing it on the counter.

Rose’s ears rang as the headline played itself over and over again through her mind.

The man and woman embraced, comforting one another, before moving into the next room, leaving Rose alone. She stared at the stack of papers, a part of her itching to read the article, but she shook it away; she needed to find Lily and get out as soon as possible.

As she headed back into the previous room, she glanced out the front window, doing a double take when she saw a familiar face standing by the sidewalk.

“Lily!” She cried in relief, hurriedly pushing open the door and running out. Lily jolted in surprise, and Rose wrapped her arms around her sister. “Thank God, don’t ever do that to me again, alright?” She backed up, looking her sister up and down… and her face fell.

Lily was no longer dressed as a bee; in fact, she wasn’t wearing a costume at all, now wearing just a sweater, jeans, and boots. She seemed to stare blankly at Rose -- no, Rose realized, it seemed that she was staring through her, at the house.

Rose turned back to the house, watching as the door swung loosely on its hinge. She could see the man through the window, heading towards the door. Lily wriggled out of Rose’s grasp, sprinting down the sidewalk just as the man peered out of the doorway, looking around for whoever had thrown it open so furiously.

“Lily!” Rose called, chasing after her as the man shut the door. “Lily, wait! What’s wrong!”

The two seemed to be running forever, before at last, Rose could see their house coming up on the side of the road. Lily bounded up the driveway and threw open the door, slamming it shut behind her.

Lily panted as she pressed her back to the door, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. She rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve, quiet sobs escaping her throat.

It had been a year already, and yet her heart still ached. It had only taken a minute for Halloween night to burn itself into her mind as the worst night of her life. She glanced up at the wall across from the door, her lip quivering and her knees wobbling as she found herself staring into her dead sister’s face.

“Rose,” she whimpered, her knees giving out under her, “I’m sorry, Rose.

I’m sorry.”


End file.
